


Zolushok

by faeriefirefly



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Cinderella Fusion, Angst with a Happy Ending, As it should be, Character's Name Spelled as Viktor, Fairy Tale Retellings, Fractured Fairy Tale, Light Angst, Long-Haired Victor Nikiforov, M/M, no beta - we die like men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-30
Updated: 2020-01-16
Packaged: 2020-07-26 01:49:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20035879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faeriefirefly/pseuds/faeriefirefly
Summary: At last, his stepmother reached the bottom stair and looked up, freezing for a moment as her eyes locked on Viktor. One painted-on eyebrow rose imperiously and a sneering smile twisted her lips. “And what do we have here? Playing dress up, Vitya dear?”The diminutive dripped like poison from her tongue. Viktor returned her smile with a brittle one of his own. “Funny, Mother. I shall accompany you to the ball.”She hated it when he called her mother. At first, she had wanted him to call her mama, as her sons did, but she could never replace his own. Later, it was a reminder that he wasn’t a simple servant after all. Her features sharpened into a haughty mask as she began advancing toward him, her steps mincing, hampered by the shoes and the gown, but no less intimidating.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much to [glitterpile](https://archiveofourown.org/users/glitterpile/pseuds/glitterpile) for the help with masculinizing the Russian for Cinderella! I was hoping for a slightly more unique title than Cinderfella, and she gave me the perfect solution! 
> 
> And thank you, always, to my fic soulmate [Dedica](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dedica/pseuds/Dedica) for cheering this idea on! Sorry I was too impatient to have this one betaed _again_, love!
> 
> Chapters will update weekly until complete!

Once upon a time in a far away land, there lived a boy who didn’t really live at all. He spent his days running to and fro, waiting on his stepmother and stepbrothers, with barely a moment to spare for himself. Viktor had once been an only child, the apple of his mother’s eye, but that all changed when she took ill and wasted away the winter he was six. His father had remarried a year later, a noble woman who was recently widowed herself, with two young boys just the right age for Viktor to play with. But Viktor’s father was away on business for months and months on end and his stepmother jealous of Viktor, of the love his father still carried for his mother while her own marriage was one of convenience. She ruled the household with an iron fist, spoiling his stepbrothers while holding him to the highest standards and punishing him when he didn’t meet them. Viktor grew quieter and quieter, but his father didn’t notice on his short visits home, until one day, he learned his father would never come home again.

His father’s ship had been lost at sea, and without a steady source of income, his stepmother was depleting the savings his father had left far faster than she would have liked. The servants were let go one after another, and Viktor was left to take up their workload while his stepmother and stepbrothers, who were too afraid of their mother to defy her, continued to live a life of luxury. He toiled away, his clothes becoming stained and tattered, skin no longer carrying its rosy flush, silver hair losing its luster. The years he’d already spent under his stepmother had beaten down his spirit and he was exhausted after taking care of the cooking and cleaning and errands each day, too tired in body and mind to seek something better for himself. Viktor continued to slave away, his only companions his faithful old hound, Makkachin, and his daydreams of life and love.

One day, Viktor answered a demanding ringing of the bell at the front door, only to be greeted by a royal courier. The man unrolled a parchment, cleared his throat, and began reading a royal edict—or rather, reciting it, clearly having memorized the contents of the parchment by rote repetition. His voice droned on, finishing with, “…therefore, by order of King Babichev, all eligible bachelors are to attend the ball in honor of Her Royal Highness Princess Mila’s eighteenth birthday.” He pulled an invitation from a bag stuffed full, handed it to Viktor, and abruptly turned to leave, clearly in a hurry to move on to the next house.

Viktor looked over the richly engraved invitation. The princess’ birthday was just a fortnight away and the purpose of the extended ball for her to choose a potential husband—three nights of dancing and rubbing elbows with the kingdom’s eligible bachelors. Lost in thought, he turned to take the invitation to his stepmother, even knowing it would send her into a fit of preparations that would exhaust him further and that they likely couldn’t afford. _All_ eligible bachelors were ordered to attend, and Viktor was most certainly eligible, though the neighbors, the townspeople, and even Viktor himself seemed to forget he was more than just a household servant. Viktor had seen the princess from afar, a beautiful girl his age with bright red hair and brighter blue eyes, but he certainly didn’t know her well enough to marry her, and a few nights wouldn’t change anything. Despite that, he saw a glimmer of hope in the invitation, an end to his dreary days playing scullery maid and stable boy and valet all in one. At the very least, he would have a few nights away from his chores, and he did love to dance.

The invitation was received by Viktor’s stepmother much as he’d expected, and he was whipped into a flurry of activity along with the rest of the household. His stepmother spared no expense, hiring tailors to work night and day to whip up the finest of suits for her boys. Viktor was run ragged with errands and driving the carriage to take his stepfamily to fittings, to cobblers, to merchants, standing silently and carrying their purchases. In the evenings, after everyone went to bed and the house quieted, Viktor worked on his own suit, painstakingly taking apart one of his father’s to put it back together into something new, something surprising. The style was outdated but the cloth was fine, still in excellent condition, and more than ample to make a lovely suit to flatter his slim frame, though he didn’t have enough time or material to make one for each night. His eyes burned and his fingers bled, but by the time the day of the first ball arrived, he had finished.

Viktor slept a scant few hours before rising at dawn, eager to complete his chores and clean himself up before helping his stepfamily get ready for the ball. He tended the livestock, weeded the garden and hung the laundry out to dry all before breakfast. Once he’d cooked and cleaned and cooked again, he spared himself the luxury of a hot bath. He soaked in the sweet-smelling water until it grew tepid, scrubbing his skin until it was rosy and pink once more. He left his hair for last, carefully untangling the long silver strands, brushing until it gleamed. His hair hadn’t shone like this since his mama had petted and cosseted him, when they’d brushed each other’s hair at her vanity before bed each evening so long ago, using the same fine combs and brushes he hid under his bed but hadn’t used in years ‘til now. He tied his hair back, put on his spare set of clothes, tattered and worn but clean, and went upstairs to help his stepfamily into their finery.

His stepmother was first, already dressed in her chemise and petticoats but needing help with the stays of her corset. He tightened the laces until she was happy and helped her into her gown, a beautiful new confection in dove gray taffeta, befitting her status and in the latest fashion, of course. Viktor hooked each tiny pearl button up the line of her back, grateful that her sharp eyes were distracted by her own image in the looking glass and she didn’t notice his improved appearance. He left her to her cosmetics and the hairdresser she’d hired in, and headed to his stepbrothers’ dressing room.

His stepbrothers’ suits weren’t quite as complicated but they still required help with the intricate fastenings, making sure their cravats were tied just so, their handkerchiefs and the lace in their sleeves lay perfectly. Georgi wasn’t ashamed to use the artifice of cosmetics himself, though Yuri scoffed at him, and Viktor had to help them both style their hair. He wanted to hurry, to slip into his own suit as soon as they were dressed as he knew he would have precious little time to ready himself, but he took his time, knowing his stepmother needed to be happy with what she saw first time or he would be redoing his work until they climbed into the carriage. Once the last curl was patted into place and the last buckle fastened on the last boot, Viktor left his stepbrothers to admiring themselves in the looking glass.

He rushed downstairs to his little alcove off the kitchen, pulling out his own suit from its hiding spot. He quickly stripped himself of his rags and donned the shirt, spilling lace from the cuffs just as the ones he’d left upstairs, a waterfall of white flowing down the front as well. He followed it with a pair of simply cut breeches, a solid satin that matched the pattern of his brocade waistcoat beautifully. His velvet coat fit him perfectly, nipped in at his slender waist and highlighting his broad shoulders. He slipped on his father’s dress boots, outdated and a bit too wide but polished to perfection and still serviceable. Viktor luxuriated in the forgotten feel of fine fabric against his skin as he brushed his hair one last time, craning his neck to make sure the bow he tied in the satin ribbon holding it back from his face was perfect, the reflection just visible in his mama’s small hand mirror.

The bell rang, signaling the arrival of the hired carriage, newer and much more impressive than their aging but still serviceable one, and Viktor called up to his stepfamily as he rushed the front door. “The others should be down shortly,” he said as he opened it, at which the footman sniffed and turned to amble back to the carriage, not deigning to reply. Viktor’s heart beat a mile a minute as he shut the door and waited for his stepmother to come downstairs.

He didn’t have to wait long, for just a few minutes later, his stepmother descended the ornate front staircase, stepping carefully in her delicate heeled shoes and watching each tread. She was followed closely by his stepbrothers. Yuri caught sight of him first, eyes widening in surprise and a small smile turning up the corners of his mouth. He nudged Georgi, whose shock stayed plastered on his face even as he cut a worried glance to his mother.

At last, his stepmother reached the bottom stair and looked up, freezing for a moment as her eyes locked on Viktor. One painted-on eyebrow rose imperiously and a sneering smile twisted her lips. “And what do we have here? Playing dress up, Vitya dear?”

The diminutive dripped like poison from her tongue. Viktor returned her smile with a brittle one of his own. “Funny, Mother. I shall accompany you to the ball.”

She hated it when he called her mother. At first, she had wanted him to call her mama, as her sons did, but she could never replace his own. Later, it was a reminder that he wasn’t a simple servant after all. Her features sharpened into a haughty mask as she began advancing toward him, her steps mincing, hampered by the shoes and the gown, but no less intimidating. “And what, pray tell, makes you think you’re attending the ball?”

“All eligible bachelors are to attend, Mother,” he replied as he stood his ground.

She came to a halt in front of him, pointing her feathered fan at his chest and staring down at him even though he was taller by several inches. “I hardly think they meant the likes of you, Viktor. Imagine if all the servants turned out for the ball!” She punctuated this with a scoffing little laugh. “Come now, lock the door behind us and go back to the kitchen. I’m sure you have chores waiting.”

“As much as everyone likes to conveniently forget, I am not merely a servant. I am indeed eligible, Mother, and I will go to the ball, accompanying you or not.”

An angry flush stained her face at his words, visible through the pale powder coating it. She gestured to his suit. “In these rags? You thought I wouldn’t recognize your father’s old clothes?”

Yuri spoke up. “What’s the harm in letting him come with us, Mama?”

“Hush, Yura,” she spat over her shoulder with a quelling glare before turning back to Viktor. “We simply can’t be seen with you, looking like a ragamuffin as you do.” Her hand darted forward, grasping the lace front of his shirt and tugging the delicate material sharply, tearing it off and throwing it to the ground.

Viktor backed up a step but she advanced again, crowding him against the door, tearing the lace off his cuffs next, grabbing the lapels of his jacket and popping off the buttons with a yank, leaving torn fabric and dangling threads in her wake. Viktor was in shock, never expecting her to resort to physical means. He tried to push her away but it was too late—she’d pulled out the jeweled knife she always carried in her retinue, slicing through the velvet of his jacket like butter with a rabid look on her face.

“Mama!” Georgi gasped, but his forward movement halted as soon as it began. He surely didn’t dare stop her, armed and vicious as she was.

Viktor put up his hands in surrender, but in his distraction, his split-second glance at Georgi, she struck like a snake, grabbing the tail of his hair and drawing the sharp stiletto across it just above the ribbon. He slid down the door, landing heavily, as he stared up at her in distress and dismay. She held his hair aloft like a shining silver trophy, baring a menacing grimace.

“This is what happens when you try to rise above your station, Viktor,” she spit through gritted teeth. “Be glad it was only your hair.” She let her trophy fall, the silky strands coming undone from the ribbon and raining over him in a silver cloud. With one last sneer, she stepped over and opened the other side of the grand double door herself. “Yura, Gosha, let’s go.”

Both boys were gawking at her in shock.

“Now,” she barked, and they startled into action, falling in line behind her as she strode out the door.

Georgi shot Viktor a distraught look but followed his mother without a word. Yuri lingered a moment longer, his face a study in consternation. “I’m so sorry, Vitya. I—“

“Yura!” The steely voice cut him off through the open door.

Yuri jumped and hurried over the threshold, another whispered _sorry_ in his wake, and closed the door behind him, leaving Viktor slumped against the door in a daze.


	2. Chapter 2

Viktor stayed slumped against the door for several long minutes. He knew his stepmother was domineering, certainly unkind at times, but he hadn’t realized how much cruelty lay behind her selfishness and arrogance. He looked at his ruined suit, so carefully crafted, almost looking like it was gilded in frost with his fine silver hair spread everywhere. _“Be glad it was only your hair,”_ echoed in his mind, and he shuddered imagining how much worse it could have been. He couldn’t stay here, not now, but he had nowhere else to go. He sighed and scrubbed his hands over his face, surprised to feel wetness on his cheeks. He hadn’t cried in years.

Standing slowly, he looked at the ruin of his clothes and hair surrounding him and gave a bitter laugh as he headed back to the kitchen for a broom to clean up the mess. In light of his stepmother’s animosity, he needed to be on his best behavior until he could figure out what to do, where to go. The empty halls of the house mocked him as he walked. He supposed it hadn’t been a home for quite some time, even if he was just realizing it, and the thought summoned more tears as he turned into the kitchen.

Makkachin rose sleepily from her comfortable spot by the fire and immediately sensed Viktor’s distress. She met him halfway as he rushed over to her, whimpering in sympathy as he collapsed to his knees and buried his face in her curly neck. Viktor felt alone, helpless, hollow in a way he hadn’t since his mother died, and he let it all out as he clung to his only friend. Eventually, his sobs subsided to the occasional hiccup, the tears that weren’t licked away by Makka dried, and he lifted his head, only to gasp as he saw the kitchen was bathed in a soft blue light, the likes of which he’d never seen before.

A strange boy stood before him, biting his lip and twisting his hands in the hem of his tunic as the blue light faded. Viktor’s eyes widened as took in the delicate blush over the boy’s rounded cheeks, gorgeous brown eyes with an undertone of rich claret, a fluffy mop of black hair atop his head, before drifting down to his clothing, far finer than anything he’d ever seen. The boy’s dainty feet were clothed in delicate dancing slippers, his lithe legs in shimmering, dark blue tights, the tunic in a lighter blue shot through with silver. But beyond all that, even stranger than this beautiful, blushing boy suddenly appearing in the kitchen, was the fact that he had _wings_—lovely gossamer things, translucent, iridescent, flashing a myriad of colors, all ribbed with a shiny midnight blue. They twitched and flitted like a butterfly’s about to take flight. 

The boy stopped fiddling with his tunic and took a deep breath as determination filled his face. “Viktor Nikiforov?”

Viktor nodded shakily, clutching Makkachin tight.

“I’m Yuuri, your fairy godfather. I’m here to get you ready for the ball.”

Viktor continued to stare, shocked speechless, but Makka gave a soft boof in reply. Yuuri glanced at her and smiled.

“Yes, I know. I’ll be gentle.” With that, Yuuri stepped closer, leaning down to pat Makka on the head, then took Viktor’s hand.

Viktor let himself be drawn to his feet, noting the soft skin against his palm was slightly damp with sweat. His eyes were on Yuuri’s, but the fairy was looking him over critically while gently guiding him to spin in a slow circle. Viktor shivered at the fleeting brush of Yuuri’s hands on his shoulder, at his hip, in his ruined hair. His mind spun far faster than his body, thoughts and questions chasing each other round and round, all jumbling together. Sure, Viktor had heard the legends, but to have his own fairy godfather? He could barely believe this was happening, that it wasn’t all a dream. 

When he finally faced Yuuri again, the fairy’s mouth was drawn into a soft moue of disappointment. “Oh dear, she really did a number on you, didn’t she?” He drew that plump bottom lip in between his teeth once again, eyes darting around the kitchen before coming up to meet Viktor’s and skittering away with a blush when he found them still fixed to his face. “I need some more room to work. Let’s go outside, into the garden?”

Viktor nodded again and Yuuri turned to head out the door, leaving him staring at the way the tunic was cut to accommodate those lovely wings. The fabric was split down the back from each shoulder to Yuuri’s hips, offering tantalizing glimpses of pale skin as he walked. Viktor was so entranced, he made no move toward the door until Makkachin knocked into the backs of his knees, urging him forward with a grumble. Yuuri jumped as he heard her and Viktor could see the tips of his pointed ears turn red even in the dim light.

They walked to the middle of the garden before Yuuri stopped, turning and looking around. “Yes, this will do nicely.” Without warning, he waved his hands, the soft blue light back as his wings fluttered and black hair whipped around his head in a nonexistent breeze.

Viktor felt the caress of Yuuri’s hands again, all over, all at once, overwhelming him as the light flooded his vision. It lasted only a moment, but when he looked down, he gasped in amazement. His shredded jacket was gone, replaced with an emerald green velvet, much softer and richer than the one he’d made himself. His shirt was of the finest lawn, nearly-sheer lace spilling once again from the cuffs and down his chest, topped off with a narrow black ribbon ‘round his neck. The peridot waistcoat was embroidered with glinting silver, and the breeches felt perfectly fitted to his form. Black boots came almost to his knee over the black satin, much more fashionable than the ankle boots of his father’s, polished to a mirror shine and sporting sparkling silver buckles. Pristine white gloves covered his hands, a detail he hadn’t been able to account for before.

Busy marveling at the new clothes gracing his body, Viktor didn’t notice Yuuri had moved close again until he was right in front of his face, frowning. “Sorry, I’m sorry. It was supposed to all be done at once. I’m new at this and— Just— Here.”

Yuuri brushed Viktor’s hair from his face, running his fingers through every last strand, patting it into place. Then he turned Viktor’s palms up and covered them with his own. When he pulled them away, a silver half mask rested in Viktor’s hands, swirled with filigree and glinting with green gems of every shade. Yuuri looked pleased with the result, giving him a soft smile. “There we go. Put it on.”

Viktor complied, and the mask fitted to his face so seamlessly it needed no ties to stay in place. “Yuuri, this is amazing! How do I look?”

“Perfect, gorgeous,” Yuuri replied without hesitation, eyes widening and a blush painting his cheeks again as he did. He quickly looked away and his gaze landed on Makkachin, who was sitting off to the side, panting happily. “Do you think you’re up for it, girl?”

Makka woofed in reply, tail wagging, and Yuuri waved his hands once again. Glowing blue light swirled around her, and when it faded, a sleek, silver-beige steed stood in her place, emerald green ribbons woven through her curly mane and tail. Viktor worried for a split second until the mare looked over, Makka’s dark puppy dog eyes the same in this new form. She already wore a finely tooled saddle and bridle, and she shook her head experimentally, whuffling as she stamped her front feet.

Yuuri laughed in reply, a clear peal of delight. “It is a bit different, isn’t it? But it will fade at midnight and you’ll be back to your old self, until tomorrow evening anyway.” He turned to Viktor. “Now, you’ll have to make sure you’re back here before the clock strikes twelve. The enchantments will fade in this realm as this day turns into the next. But that still gives you several hours at the ball, surely enough time to meet the princess. And don’t worry—Makkachin won’t feel any ill effects. I made sure to enhance her energy and stamina too.”

Makka stepped over and stood beside them, mouthing at the soft bit between her teeth and lazily flicking her tail. Yuuri knelt and cupped his hands, looking expectantly at Viktor, ready to boost him into the saddle. But Viktor didn’t want to go, or at least not yet. Not even an hour ago, he was determined to go to the ball, knowing his stepmother would be against it and vowing to attend no matter what she said. But now, he had so many questions, and even more compelling was Yuuri himself. He was fascinated by this heretofore unknown fairy godfather, by his kind eyes and blushing smiles.

“Wait!” he exclaimed, scrambling for an excuse to stay a bit longer. “I-I haven’t danced in so long, I’m sorely out of practice. I’m afraid I’ll forget a step or tread on someone’s toes.”

Yuuri stood and straightened, his wings fluttering nervously as he twisted his hands in his tunic again. Makkachin snorted and he cut her a glance, his anxious movements ceasing as his face flushed once again. “Um, I guess you can practice? With me?”

Viktor sank into a bow with a flourish, extending his hand. “May I have this dance?”

The color stayed high on Yuuri’s cheeks as he waved a hand to set music tinkling out of thin air, then curtsied in reply. Viktor drew him into a minuet, mirroring Yuuri’s perfect, gliding steps but finding he didn’t really need much of a refresher after all. Their eyes met at every pass, Viktor yearning to keep Yuuri close each time they parted for a procession. They practiced a cotillon next, gracefully stepping through the patterns in perfect time, the magical music changing with the dance, but forewent the quadrille, really needing the other couples to do it properly.

Then, daringly, Viktor pulled Yuuri closer. Wide, wine-brown eyes stared up at him as he placed a careful hand just to the side of where Yuuri’s wings began on his upper back, dangerously close to the slit in the fabric, and positioned Yuuri’s on his shoulder. He took Yuuri’s other hand again and led them into a waltz, minding the fairy’s wings as he spun them around the garden. He’d never be allowed to dance so indecorously with the princess but Yuuri needn’t know that, and it was worth the risk to have Yuuri follow his lead seamlessly, moving as if they’d been partners for years instead of strangers who’d just met. They took a few turns around the garden before Yuuri stopped, pulling away, though he seemed as reluctant to do so as Viktor.

“I think that’s enough practice for now. You’d better go before you lose your chance to dance with the princess tonight,” Yuuri said, rather breathlessly, as he beckoned to Makkachin. He knelt again, and this time, Viktor stepped into his cupped hands with a barely repressed sigh, allowing Yuuri to boost him into the saddle effortlessly. The fairy stood, whispering something to Makka that made her snort and flick her ears before reminding Viktor, “Remember, you must be back before midnight, when your clothes will turn back to what they were and Makkachin will be a poodle again.”

Before Viktor could reply, Yuuri slapped Makkachin on the rear, the hound-turned-horse taking off in a trot. Viktor glanced over his shoulder to for a last look at Yuuri to find the fairy watching them go with a wistful look on his face. As Viktor strained his neck to keep looking at Yuuri, his form faded from sight in a wash of that soft blue light. Viktor faced forward once more and urged Makka into a canter, ready for the ball as he’d ever be.


	3. Chapter 3

Makkachin made quick work of the ride, her silver shoes surely enchanted along with the rest of her, swift and surefooted as she was over the packed dirt road. Victor scarcely had time to worry about how he would avoid being announced, how he would deal with his stepmother if she recognized him, if he could even get into the ball without an invitation, for soon the dirt turned to gravel, which gave way to cobblestone as they reached the city and rode toward the castle. Viktor had seldom been as far as the city center and had only seen the castle a few times when he was but a boy, the imposing iron gates always closed. But tonight, they were thrown wide, and he needn’t have worried about his lack of invitation—he’d barely nodded to the guards before they waved him through, Makka prancing up the wide path to the front entrance like a show pony.

When they reached the gleaming stone stairs, Viktor dismounted and turned Makkachin over to a groom, who looked in awe of her fine lines and exotic coat, stuttering as he promised to take good care of her. With one last pat to her curly flank, Viktor turned and made his way up to the massive doors, also flung wide for the occasion. Again, he was waved right in by the guards and directed to a waiting footman, who sent him along his way with one of many bored-looking young pages as a guide.

Viktor followed the page through winding hallways to the grand ballroom, pausing after dismissing the boy with a nod once they reached the grand double doors. He’d spied his reflection in a large looking glass a moment earlier and couldn’t help but backtrack down the hall to admire Yuuri’s handiwork. The suit truly did fit him perfectly and the mask was gorgeous, emphasizing his sharp jawline and full lips. Even more miraculous was the way Yuuri had styled his hair, those pats and waves of his hands shaping the strands into a side-swept fringe, the back and sides cropped close, something altogether new but elegant. Viktor barely recognized himself and was certain his stepmother would be none the wiser so long as he kept out of her way.

Finally finished admiring himself in the looking glass, Viktor slipped into the ballroom unnoticed, surveying the room from the edge of the unoccupied dance floor. He spotted lords and ladies dressed in their finest peacocking about, their eyes sharp as they paraded their eligible sons in front of the royal family one by one, with other young men stepping forward on their own. It looked like he’d arrived at the tail end of the introductions, his stepbrothers having already made their way before the princess as he didn’t see them in line. Viktor melted into the crowd, waiting for the last few eligible bachelors to bow before the dais.

Soon thereafter, the king stood, gesturing to the musicians in their balcony to start playing as he took his daughter’s hand and guided her from the dais to the dance floor. He led her through the steps of her debut dance, other couples feathering in around them, then passed her off to her next partner. The king leaving seemed to signal a change in the music, and the dancers twirled about in another pattern, changing partners time and again. Viktor joined in, speaking amicably with the princess as the pattern pushed her into his arms, continuing with one dance after another, losing track of how many partners he’d had as a dizzying array of skirts swirled around him. He even brushed shoulders with Yuri and Georgi a few times, neither noticing him behind his attire, despite Georgi looking at him appraisingly.

Princess Mila deftly made her way back to him time and again, weaving her way through each of the patterns with a skill and grace that positioned her exactly where she wished to be, which was apparently in light conversation with Viktor. He couldn’t blame her, the way many of the others were bragging and boasting and trying to command her attention. They talked about everything and nothing, the redhead’s temperament proving as fiery as her hair. But despite finding an unexpected kindred spirit in the princess, Viktor couldn’t help but wish Yuuri was back in his arms instead. He longed to know more about the fetching fairy who’d turned his terrible evening around with his kindness and magic, and though the princess was a lovely dancer and his other partners passable, Yuuri was far more graceful, the music seeming to follow his movements rather than the other way around.

An intermission called a halt to the dancing and he escorted the princess to the refreshment tables, trying to think of a way to leave the ball early without causing insult. The bell had already tolled ten but he knew the dancing would last well into the night. Fortunately, Princess Mila spotted her mother making her way toward them and made his escape easy.

“I’m certain she’s headed over here to tell me to mingle with all the suitors instead of sticking with you as much as I can, Viktor,” she said with a wry smile. “Thank you for being such pleasant company. Shall we dance again in the second set?”

“The pleasure is all mine, Princess, but perhaps we should wait until tomorrow evening, lest Her Majesty think I am monopolizing your time.” He gave her a smile of his own and took her hand, bowing low and winking over it.

The princess laughed and rolled her eyes. “Most decorous, milord. As you wish; I look forward to dancing again on the morrow.” With that, she whisked away in a swirl of silk skirts, heading off her mother before the esteemed lady could make her way to them.

Viktor was pleasantly surprised by the princess. She was a breath of fresh air in the room full of stuffy nobles, an intelligent and witty young woman in whom Viktor could see the makings of a great queen. She seemed happy to while her time away with him rather than suffer through dancing and talking with some of the other pompous young men vying for her attention in hopes of being chosen as her consort. But much as he could see becoming fast friends with her, he truly couldn’t imagine anything more, and he was certain the princess felt the same way.

He’d never really been able to imagine anything more than friendship with anyone. Viktor wasn’t blind; he had seen the way the village girls made eyes at him and had even been offered tumbles by lads and lasses alike, but he hadn’t truly been tempted. He’d never given much thought to such things, not having time for much of anything but his chores and errands in so long. But as he made his way out of the ballroom, following the long halls back to the front entrance, his mind wandered to Yuuri again, and suddenly, thoughts of a paired future were much more appealing.

The footman raised an eyebrow at his early departure but said nothing as he directed a page to run to the stables and have the groom ready Makkachin. Viktor slowly made his way back down the stone steps to wait for his faithful friend, thinking of Yuuri all the way. Makka was ready in record time, nickering a greeting as her hoofs clopped across the stone courtyard. The groom was effusive in his praise, chattering about her calm temperament and evident good breeding as Viktor waved off his assistance in mounting, using the block provided. He thanked the groom, cutting the excited man off with an apology and a promise to bring Makka again the next night, and was soon exiting the iron gates.

Viktor was lost in daydreams of beautiful brown eyes and blushing cheeks before he’d even left the city, quickly making his way from cobblestone to gravel to dirt once more. Before he knew it, he was blinking up at the manor, Makkachin picking her way around to the kitchen garden. He hopped out of the saddle with ease and quickly divested her of the riding gear, setting the various accoutrements on the garden wall before scratching behind her ears and where the bridle had rested along her soft cheeks. He laughed as she took advantage of her new height to lip at his hair.

Thankful Makka had a good head on her shoulders and had been able to make her way home largely on her own, he patted her neck and plied her with praise. Her coat truly was remarkable, a finer, much shorter curl than her poodle pelt. He knew she’d be back to her usual self soon but took care of her horse form all the same, rubbing her down with the saddle blanket as she looked on from under long, curly lashes. He’d just started taking the ribbons out of her mane when he heard the bell from the village ring, faint but just audible at this distance.

As the twelfth peal rang out, Viktor felt the barest brush of something against his skin, the fleeting touch of hands or simply magic, he wasn’t sure. He watched as Makka was enveloped in swirling blue light once again. The caresses stopped and the soft light faded as the echo of the last bell died away, and Viktor knew they were back to normal. Well, Makkachin was normal, panting up at him happily. Viktor was back in his ruined suit, but he found he was still quite happy and smiled down at her.

“Well that was quite an adventure, wasn’t it, Makka? Let’s go in and get cleaned up, then I think you deserve a snack. You were such a good girl today.”

The poodle gave a soft boof in response, tail twitching back and forth, and followed him into the kitchen. He took off the ill-fitting boots, unscathed as they were, and put them under his bed, then changed into his usual clean but worn clothes and threw what was left of his father’s suit onto the kitchen coals. He watched the flames lick over the fabric until it caught and burned merrily, turning away when the velvet and satin crumbled to ashes to get the broom he’d come into the kitchen for so many hours ago. He cleaned up the mess his stepmother had made in the foyer, binning the hair instead of burning it—he shuddered at the thought of the smell—with Makkachin at his heels.

He next treated Makka to a slice of ham, taking a bit of cheese and bread for himself as well, and went to fetch his mother’s mirror and combs, determined to do what he could with his hair before his stepmother saw him again. To Viktor’s surprise, once he’d turned on an oil lamp and taken a critical eye to the mirror, his hair was still perfectly coiffed. Whatever magic had been worked on his hair had stayed while the rest faded. A small smile stole over Viktor’s lips, growing into a heart-shaped grin as he delighted in the lasting gift Yuuri had given. He played with the silver fringe, ruffled his fingers through the close crop at the back, finally able to appreciate the newfound lightness of his skull.

Viktor continued admiring and fiddling with his hair for a few moments but soon sobered as he wondered if the style was too unique, if his stepfamily would notice the resemblance to the man they saw at the ball. He knew Georgi had taken careful note of him and he may not have been the only one. Viktor reluctantly parted his hair in the middle instead, tucking the fringe behind both ears. The intruding thoughts of his stepfamily brought an end to his giddy mood, which made him realize just how exhausted he was after his eventful evening. He tucked the mirror and combs away in their hiding place, then banked the fire and blew out the lamp, yawning widely.

He supposed he should wait up and open the door for his stepfamily, help them out of their finery, but he couldn’t be fussed. He called Makka over to bed and closed the curtains to his alcove, falling asleep almost immediately with the poodle tucked close into the bend of his knees. Usually a light sleeper, Viktor didn’t even stir when Georgi and Yuri snuck down some time later to check on him, deep in sweet dreams of love and laughter and dancing with a fairy prince.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A series of unfortunate events in real life derailed this story for a while but I'm hoping to have it wrapped up in the next few weeks...as it's grown by one more chapter... Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy!

As usual, Viktor rose with the sun the following morning. He breezed through his morning chores, thoughts on his fairy godfather the entire time. Georgi and Yuri beat their mother to the breakfast table, the younger yawning into his morning tea while they waited for her to join them so they could eat—the lady of the house must be present before anyone else is served, of course. As Viktor poured Georgi his own steaming cup, the latter opened his mouth, only to close it again, then repeat the motion like a fish gasping in air.

“Out with it, Georgi,” Viktor said, familiar with the look on his stepbrother’s face even if his aborted attempts at speech hadn’t given him away.

“I’m so sorry, Viktor, for what Mama did last night,” Georgi said in a rush. “Your suit was presentable and she really should have let you go.”

Viktor waved a hand, and with it, waved away the apology. “It’s fine, Zhora.”

“It’s not fine, Vitya,” Georgi replied as he shook his head.

“He’s right,” Yuri interjected, voice still rough with sleep. “She shouldn’t have done that.” His brow was furrowed and mouth twisted to the side. “And we should have stopped her instead of just standing there,” he added, shame and self-recrimination evident in his voice.

Georgi nodded in agreement, opening his mouth once more, but Viktor didn’t let him speak. “Truly, I am fine. It was a silly thought anyway, and how would I have gone all three nights in the same clothes?”

“You could have mine, Vitya. They wouldn’t even need to be taken in. I told Mama I don’t want to go to the balls—what’s the point when my sweet Anya isn’t there?” Georgi sighed, clearly thinking about the village vicar’s daughter with whom he’d been smitten for months. Yuri snorted in derision, and an affronted look came over Georgi’s face as he opened his mouth once more.

But Viktor cut him off again, hoping to stave off Georgi’s melodramatics. “Please, you know Mother wouldn’t let that happen, especially after last night. Let’s speak of this no more.”

Both of his stepbrothers opened their mouths to protest at his words then, but they stayed silent as the sound of shoes tapping down the hall became audible.

Viktor’s stepmother swept into the dining room with her usual airs, plopping her dressing-gown-clad self into her seat at the head of the table. As Viktor handed her a cup of piping-hot tea with two sugars and a splash of milk, she started speaking, not even bothering to look at Viktor. “Did you see that gentleman in green who danced with the princess all throughout the first set? Why, I ought to complain to Their Majesties. Everyone was supposed to have an equal chance, and you boys only danced with her a few times while he must have had at least a dozen!”

After realizing his stepmother had no idea the mysterious gentleman she was disparaging was the same man dishing up her eggs, Viktor tuned her out as she continued to pick apart the ball. His stepbrothers hummed or made small comments but let her carry the conversation as usual. He finished serving his stepfamily then retired to the kitchen to eat his own breakfast, laughing to himself at some of his stepmother’s more outlandish observations, exaggerations, and speculations. He soon finished his meal, then cleaned up after himself and the others before starting on the rest of his morning chores.

The day passed with its typical rhythm, Viktor daydreaming through his mindless tasks as usual, but now his flights of fancy featured a lovely pair of brandy-brown eyes and slightly rounded cheeks stained a faint pink. He hummed to himself as he scrubbed and dusted, not the minstrels’ music from the night before, but rather what he could remember of the music Yuuri had conjured. Before he knew it, the hour to begin getting his stepfamily ready for the second ball had arrived, and he headed upstairs to face his stepmother once again.

She ignored him, much as she did at breakfast and lunch, as he silently helped her into another new gown for the occasion. He was happy she wasn’t suspicious of his charade last night, and content to be treated as an invisible servant instead of with the pretend pity she often employed. He soon left to help Yuri and Georgi, without a word exchanged between them.

At first, getting his stepbrothers ready was a more subdued affair than the day prior. Viktor again cut off their attempts at apology, until they stopped trying and focused on the tasks at hand. He chatted with them, trying to show there were no hard feelings, asking after the trio of kittens Yuri had found and was hiding in his wardrobe, and letting Georgi bemoan the fact that the ball was keeping him from calling on Anya. There truly were no hard feelings. After all, if his stepmother had let Viktor go to the ball as he’d planned, who knew if he would have met Yuuri?

When he finished, their spirits were much improved, as were his own. He couldn’t wait to see them all off and wait for Yuuri’s arrival. He headed downstairs to wait for the hired carriage. Thankfully, his wait was short lived. He soon closed the door behind Yuri’s back and hurried back to the kitchen, wondering if the fairy would already be there. But he only found Makkachin lying by the hearth, so he settled down with her to wait.

The minutes ticked by and Viktor began to worry if he’d misunderstood. He hadn’t actually confirmed when Yuuri would be back tonight, or even that he would. Rather, he’d assumed, since the ball would go on again the second and third nights. And hadn’t the fairy said something about tomorrow the day before? He didn’t really care about the ball anymore but he absolutely had to see Yuuri again. Viktor stood and paced, unable to stay still any longer as his thoughts grew increasingly worried. He wondered what he would have to do if Yuuri didn’t show up, what dire straits he would have to get himself into to get his fairy godfather to come to his aid again.

All of a sudden, the kitchen was awash with soft blue light once more and Yuuri appeared between blinks, looking more flushed and flustered than Viktor had seen him at any point the prior evening. Yuuri’s wings held him aloft, buzzing so swiftly Viktor could only see a shimmering blur until he gently set his feet on the ground.

Viktor leapt forward. “Yuuri!” he cried as he took both of the fairy’s hands in his own. “You’re back!”

“G-good evening, Viktor. I apologize for being a little late.” Viktor shook his head and squeezed Yuuri’s hands, wordlessly telling him the apology was unnecessary. Yuuri gently extricated one hand, tugging Viktor toward the door with the other. “Are you ready to get changed for the ball?”

Viktor let himself be led into the garden once more with Makkachin on his heels, though he was a bit disappointed that they were getting down to business so soon. He tightened his grip on Yuuri’s hand, then let him go with a sigh and a trail of his fingers over the soft skin of Yuuri’s palm as he stepped away, bringing the blush back to the fairy’s cheeks. The blue light of Yuuri’s magic surrounded Viktor and he felt the phantom caress of Yuuri’s hands once again.

When he looked down, he saw himself clad in a deep sapphire coat of the softest velvet with shining satin lapels. Delicate golden lace spilled from his sleeves and down his chest, and his waistcoat was a cornflower blue brocade shot through with gold thread. Pale blue breeches clung to his legs like a second skin, ending at his ankle, just above elegantly turned shoes that matched the color of his waistcoat, made from butter-soft leather and sporting a fashionable heel.

Yuuri stepped forward and took Viktor’s hands in his once again, turning them palm side up and covering them while another mask materialized from thin air. The mask now in his hands was no less exquisite than the glittering green of the night before, but this time, sapphires and topazes in various shades of blue were set in swirling gold. Viktor found it a perfect fit yet again as he lifted it to his face, then froze as he felt Yuuri’s hands brush through his hair, fingers lingering in the silver strands…or maybe that was just Viktor’s wishful thinking.

The fairy’s fingers left his hair suddenly, almost jerkily, as a blush tinted his cheeks yet again, as if he’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. He hastily looked at Makkachin, sitting patiently at Viktor’s side, and knelt to pet her. “Ready, pretty girl?” Makka’s tongue just lolled lazily from her mouth as she soaked up the affection, and Yuuri laughed as he stood and backed up a few paces. “I suppose you are.”

Magic swirled in the air again, leaving the beautiful beige mare from the night before in its wake, the only difference the color of the satin ribbons woven through Makkachin’s mane and tail and the gold glinting on her tack where silver stood before. Makka whickered, butting her huge head into Yuuri’s chest for more pets, and the fairy chuckled while he obliged. With one last pat, he finally looked at Viktor again, the tips of his pointed ears still pink as he bit his lip before resolve straightened his shoulders and he asked, “Did you get enough dance practice in yesterday, or are you still a bit rusty?”

A smile spread over Viktor’s face, so wide it almost dislodged his mask, as he asked, “Would you like to dance?”

Yuuri nodded, standing firm despite the blush painting his cheeks, and holding out one hand while the other set magical music floating through the air.

Viktor lightly stepped over to Yuuri and bowed over it, delighting in the feel of the fairy’s hand in his once more, even through the fine gloves. Viktor reveled at the feel of Yuuri in his arms again as they whirled around the courtyard, foregoing the traditional patterned dances altogether in favor of the waltz. After several passes by a bored looking Makkachin in which they both tried to outdo the other, they were out of breath with the exertion and laughter. Those lovely eyes sparkled up at him in the starlight, and Viktor couldn’t help but draw him closer, the hand on Yuuri’s back slipping down to his waist as they spun to a stop.

A breathless moment stretched between them before Viktor’s lips parted and his hand tightened on Yuuri’s waist. Dark lashes fluttered as Yuuri blinked rapidly, breaking the spell. His cheeks pinked even more, and he dropped Viktor’s hand as if he’d been scalded and stepped back, clearing his throat. “It seems you’ve got the hang of it again.”

“Yuuri—” Viktor started, but was interrupted.

“You’d better be off to the ball before it gets too late,” Yuuri said as if he hadn’t heard Viktor, back to not looking at him while he fidgeted. Viktor sighed but stepped over to Makkachin and let Yuuri boost him into the saddle. He still wasn’t looking at Viktor, his gaze fixed on his own hand stroking Makkachin’s shoulder instead. “Remember, you need to be back before midnight—”

“When the spell will wear off. Yes, I remember,” Viktor finished with a smile. He placed his hand over Yuuri’s, stilling his movement, and those big brown eyes finally swept up to meet his. “I’ll see you tomorrow evening, won’t I, Yuuri?”

The fairy let out a long, shuddering breath with a soft “Yes,” at the end. His hand turned in Viktor’s to clutch at it tightly for a moment before slipping away and patting Makkachin’s rump, sending them off to the ball.


End file.
